And, since the things that people say to one another are more often allusive than explanatory, there is no problem. Lowther, who does not want to appear a philistine ignoramus, tours the studio making noises of appreciation. He loves Paula’s “Harlequin”. “Oh, do you?” says Paula. “Oh good … Actually I’m rather pleased with that. Everyone says I’m onto something there.” Lowther remarks upon what a marvellous place Framleigh must be to work in, such a tremendous atmosphere, so evocative … “Well, yes,” says Paula guardedly; she does not wish to appear too firmly associated with Framleigh, that might not be expedient. “My organization,” says Lowther, carefully noncommittal, “is taking something of an interest in Framleigh. There is a possibility of an arrangement that might be beneficial all round.” Paula, seeing that her guess has been right, nods. “Oh – super … I suppose,” she adds vaguely, “it’s a question of money?” “Naturally,” says Lowther, a touch surprised. For him, practically everything is.
Toby, at this point, intervenes. It might be as well if this conversation did not go too far. He murmurs that there is an awful lot to see yet, and prises Lowther gently from the studio. He takes him over to the pottery, which is in a creative hum; Lowther is amused by Bob and almost tempted to have a go himself. He is impressed by some of Bob’s more austere pieces and wouldn’t mind buying one, but does not know how to ask the price; this is not, after all, a tradesman exactly. Also, he has no idea what the price might be or how one would know if it was reasonable or not.
Bob assesses the visitor from behind a smokescreen of beard and geniality; he makes, un-noticed, one or two conversational probes.
From the pottery, Toby and Lowther proceed back round to the terrace and thence down onto the prospect. Toby, now, is giving Lowther a curtailed version of the chat to course members on the Framleigh Ideal; there are a few subtle amendments, in view of the audience. What we are trying to do, he says, is make Framleigh something of a retreat, and I mean that in more than one sense. Are you by any chance a Catholic? No, neither am I, but I do feel they have so very much the right idea in the retreat concept … Framleigh is a creative retreat, both for artists and for ordinary people. And what I envisage, given the financial wherewithal – Toby sighs – is both physical and, how shall I put it, spiritual expansion. I want to get Framleigh into other areas of expression – theatre, film. Put up a complex of workshops, convert the west wing into sleeping accommodation. And I can’t help seeing a partnership between Framleigh and your organization as potentially rewarding in so many different ways. Art has always needed patrons. Patrons – he gives a little laugh – have always needed something to patronize. We have a lot to give each other, and it’s so nicely symbolic, don’t you think?
“Symbolic?” says Lowther, with a slight frown. They have reached the beginning of the woodland rise; they walk through shafts of sunlight in which hang skeins of dust; blackbirds dash shrieking into the undergrowth.
“Your world,” says Toby. “The real, day to day world, and the sort of thing we’re trying to do. Which are of course,” he smoothly continues, “interdependent in every sense. The one sustains the other.”
Lowther continues to frown. There are one or two things here he does not altogether care for. That reference to ordinary people did not escape him, and induced a small swell of resentment. I remember you throwing up all over the chapel floor, he thinks, you were fairly ordinary yourself once upon a time. And this talk about partnership isn’t quite what’s usually implied; the potential rewards look to him to be moving rather firmly in one direction. However …
However there is no getting away from the fact that the place is awfully impressive. Members of the Board and their families would of course have special facilities; the idea is that the site eventually chosen – Framleigh or elsewhere – should offer shooting weekends to directors. At this moment, dead on cue, a pheasant erupts from a ditch and hurtles upwards; Lowther, differently clad and with a gun crooked over his arm, escorts a party of friends and associates, telling them of the restoration of the cascade and the grotto which as it happens he has rather taken upon himself, a bit of a personal obsession …
“… the Framleigh Foundation,” says Toby, “with of course prominent acknowledgement of the help we’ve received from your organization.” Lowther returns, with a jump, to present circumstances and remarks that the idea is an interesting one. Both he and Toby recognize that this means little or nothing. Toby goes on to discuss the problems of recovering the original park, which has of course always been his great ambition but … He shrugs, and gestures hopelessly at the seething vegetation. Indeed, at this point the ride is so overgrown as to be almost swallowed into the woodland; ivy and bramble lap the trunks of the trees and sprawl into the path, stands of nettle and elder and teazle must be negotiated by the walker. Lowther, gingerly picking a length of briar from his trousers, remarks that even so it is all very delightful and of course there is something to be said for real English natural scenery, specially when one is stuck in town most of the time … “Well, possibly,” says Toby. “But not of course what Kent had in mind at all, the idea of picturesque landscape is entirely different.” Lowther senses that he has been put down; he sees, also, that the briar has snagged his suit in three places.
At the grotto, he is again silenced. He glances sideways at Toby in his frayed jeans and cheesecloth shirt open to the navel and thinks that if he had grown up amid all this … Toby, pointing out features of the view, wonders with a combination of interest and disdain what sort of inflated salary a bloke like this is paid; he wonders also if he is wise to be making quite so much of the Framleigh Foundation stuff. In fact, if all that comes to nothing, Toby has a second contingency plan which does not involve Framleigh itself at all, merely the proceeds of its sale. The Framleigh Foundation, or something very similar, could equally well be sited in Provence, Rhodes, Portugal, Marrakesh or many another place.
“Shakespeare country,” says Lowther, staring into Warwickshire, and Toby sighs, though for which of several possible reasons is not apparent.
They reach the end of the woodland ride and return by way of the serpentine rill and the cascade. From time to time there are scurryings in the undergrowth which they either do not notice or dismiss as manifestations of Framleigh’s abundant nature; in fact, they are being stalked by Jason and Kevin, who abandoned their ditch activities some time ago in favour of observing the visitor. Figures like him are not often seen at Framleigh. “Who is he?” asks Kevin. Jason, who does not care to admit ignorance, hesitates; “He’s a person from the government. He’s the Prime Minister’s helper.” They are both well able to recognize the trappings of power; they have inspected Lowther’s car and peered through its windows at the baroque intricacies of its dashboard.
Half way along the prospect, Toby and Lowther are greeted by the gesticulating figure of Greg on the terrace: Toby is wanted on the phone. He hurries in, leaving Lowther to Greg. He has one or two misgivings about this, but there is no alternative.
Greg is hazy as to who Lowther is; Toby murmured something about a man from some ministry. Environment? God knows there is plenty of that in these parts; no doubt guys have to be sent to give it the once over from time to time. Accordingly, he asks Lowther, politely, if he has enjoyed his tour of the park. Lowther, wiping mud from his shoes, replies that it is of course very fine, not that one hadn’t a certain idea of what to expect, naturally one is familiar with Rousham and, and … (he breaks off – what the devil is that other place called?) … and of course it is heartbreaking to see it in such a state though of course one realizes the appalling difficulties owners like Mr Standish … Sure, says Greg, who is getting bored – this is one hell of an uninteresting guy.
Lowther is not particularly interested in Greg, either; he hadn’t realized there were Americans like this – all the ones he knows are something important in Wall Street and reassuringly like himself though with certain cultural modifications. He asks Greg, kindly, where he c
omes from and what he does. The second part of Greg’s reply ends, temporarily, the conversation. “Ah,” says Lowther; he gazes at the house, eyes narrowed, apparently inspecting architectural detail.
The strong sunlight tactlessly emphasizes the cracks in the stucco, the shredding woodwork of the windows, the inadequacies of the roof. “Cost a hell of a lot of money to fix this place up,” says Greg, following, it seems, Lowther’s thoughts. Lowther nods regretfully and remarks that that is what is worrying his organization.
“You’re short on cash?” enquires Greg. Lowther rejoins somewhat sharply that it is a question of financial expediency, simply. Sure, says Greg, you gotta make a lot of hand-outs, I guess, no good dishing it all out to one place. Not at all, says Lowther, we have a single institution in mind, I don’t entirely follow your, er … In coming to a decision on this particular purchase, he continues, the cost of restoration is very much an active factor.
Greg, at this point, ceases to take a merely desultory interest in the exchange and becomes alert. “Purchase? You people are going to buy the place?”
“There is a possibility,” says Lowther smoothly. “At the moment merely a possibility, no more. Framleigh is under consideration by my organization, let me put it like that. Glorious weather, I must say, for this sort of expedition …” He swings round and stands looking down the prospect, his hands behind his back; in the mind’s eye, Lucinda and the children appear from the trees, having been for a walk or something, and a girl in a frilly apron is bringing out a tray of drinks (catering arrangements would have to be appropriate, in a place like this, none of your hired out-of-work actors).
Greg, at the same moment, grasps what he has been told and realizes that he is in possession of an interesting piece of information that Toby does not intend him or probably anyone else to have. Toby himself now appears through the french windows and suggests that he and Lowther have a sherry in his study before lunch – “… which will be strictly informal, we run what you might call a co-operative system for the courses, people seem to prefer something quite simple and easy-going”. The invitation, it is clear, does not include Greg, who remains on the terrace, contemplating, as did Lowther, the prospect. It is not, though, the construction of the view, or the misty distances, or indeed the silver hulk of a departing aircraft that occupy his mind.
The studio sessions, now, are over, and the course members gather in the Common Room. Paula, seeing Greg on the terrace, goes out to join him. She sits on the wall, dabbling her feet in sprays of erigeron. “What are you looking at?” Greg grins. “Some real estate, that’s all.”
At lunch, Lowther is eyed with surprise by the course members, though segregated from them by the Framleigh faculty, who pen him in at the far end of the table. Paula thinks it might be expedient to continue her policy of being nice; Bob is curious; Greg is observing; Nick has to be near Toby. They eat corned beef hash while Toby talks at length about Framleigh, its history, his history, his intentions and anything else that springs to mind; he is, now, a little apprehensive about Lowther’s continuing presence and anxious to avert dangerous holes in the conversation into which unwelcome queries might be dropped.
“In the war, of course, St. Benet’s School from London was here and as you’ve seen still is, in a sense. My father never had the money to get the house restored afterwards.”
Lowther, bludgeoned into unwariness by the combination of sherry and hash, says, “Nice spot to spend the war, anyway. Damn sight better than Cornwall, that howling gale all the time.” Cursing the lapse, he meets Toby’s eyes; each knows that the other knows, and knew. “How odd,” says Toby smoothly, “I was at school in Cornwall too. It wasn’t by any chance …” “Good Lord!” exclaims Lowther, less convincingly, “I’ve just realized, of course you’re …” “Well, well,” says Paula. “I say do tell us what Toby was like as a little boy.” Lowther fractionally hesitates and his eyes meet Toby’s once more. “Alas, buried in the mists of time, I’m afraid – as it is I can only just put the face to the name.” “Let me see now,” says Toby, with furrowed brow, “wasn’t it you who hit a six in the Fathers’ cricket match?”; they look again at one another, in naked recollection. Both feel the other has turned out dismally and predictably.
Lunch over, Toby is swift to detach Lowther from everyone else; there is the tour of the house to be completed and then … Lowther, glancing at his watch, makes the noises of a busy man whose time is closely allocated. “Quite, quite,” says Toby, “which is why we must leave you …” He gives the Framleigh faculty his deprecating smile, and leads Lowther away. Bob says, to no one in particular, “And who’s Toby’s posh friend, then?” “Oh,” says Paula busily, “he’s someone from the Arts Council, didn’t Toby tell you? Having a look round to see if …” The sentence vaguely trails. “To see if what?” asks Greg. “Well,” says Paula, “to sort of see about buying things maybe.” “You figure he’s gonna buy some sculptures?” “Well, he didn’t actually say, but he loved the Harlequin.”
Greg gets up. The course members have already left the refectory and dispersed into the afternoon. “If that guy buys anything, he’s buying the whole place. You didn’t know? It seems to have slipped Toby’s mind to mention it. Excuse me – I have to make a call.”
“… and then just went off for the rest of the session,” says Jean Simpson. “I mean, it’s all very well leaving Nick to see to things, he’s a nice boy but it’s not the same, is it? It distinctly says in the brochure ‘personal supervision in every studio’. I’ve not got on today, there are several things Toby’s been helping me over and frankly with him not there I couldn’t get on at all.” She stares at Sue across the Common Room. “Excuse me, Sue, I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?”
“I just said,” says Sue, hot about the face but unrepentant, “you aren’t the only person Toby’s teaching. Actually if you ask me some people expect more than their fair share.”
There is an atmosphere of latent mutiny. Resentments have intensified. But mutiny implies some kind of concerted feeling, and hostilities are directed as liberally at one another as at the Framleigh faculty. “That girl,” snaps Jean Simpson to Mary Chambers, “wants telling where she gets off.” Even Mary is irritable; she is curiously reminded of her school days. People have taken to reserving seats in the refectory for their particular cronies; the arguments about bathrooms have become progressively less genteel.
Keith sits morosely on his own over a mug of Nescafé. He, too, had an unsatisfactory morning: he tried another drawing of the house which was even less successful than the last – this time, the thing did not so much sag in the middle as refuse to be consistent: windows leapt from one plane to another, doors staggered, the roof threatened to crush the whole edifice. Various people, passing by, offered helpful tips which served only to madden. He finds himself particularly inflamed by criticism from women, which is exasperating to a man who knows himself to be absolutely dispassionate where gender is concerned. He has always had women friends with whom sex does not arise; he does not merely think but knows that men and women have equal capacities; he has on several occasions joined in correspondence on the Women’s Page of the Guardian. And yet today if another of those interfering bitches makes a comment he might well clout her one. There’s a kind of woman who always thinks she can do a thing better herself.
It is hot. In the park, the cows swish their tails in pools of shade. The woodland is comatose; no birds sing. There is a distant remorseless sound of combine harvesters.
“And another thing,” says Jean Simpson, “that brochure goes on about the swimming pool.”
Toby sees Lowther into his car. They shake hands. “So glad,” says Toby, “you were able to make it.” “Very good of you to give up so much time,” says Lowther. “A most useful and er, informative visit. I shall of course give my Board a full and frank report.” He is lapped by the leather of the driving seat; he smiles, winds up the smoky window, starts the engine; Toby smiles, waves, stands fo
r a moment watching the Rover’s gleaming departure.
In the gun-room, Greg makes another phone call. He talks to a man he met once at a party in London who is in television. He has been wondering for some time if he should look into the TV scene. People say it pays pretty well and it has occurred to him recently that maybe as a medium of expression it has more going for it than one had thought. The man is not, on the face of it, all that encouraging but that may just be British reticence; Greg talks on, and on.
Bob, in his studio, has closed the door, despite the heat, and bolted it from inside. He draws the hessian curtain and inspects a serious of toby jugs fresh from the kiln, awaiting glazing. He works for a while on the prototype of a thatched cottage honeypot, whistling to himself. After a while, apparently satisfied, he takes the old typewriter from the corner and begins a letter to the buyer from the department store in Birmingham; he frowns, his large fingers swamping the keys; letter-writing is not really in his line.
Nick sits in his room, chewing his lip.
Paula and Toby are alone in the library. Toby stands by the floor to ceiling bookshelves in which so few books prop one another up; he wears his most burdened expression. Paula, apparently, is out of breath; her fine breasts rise and fall beneath her orange shirt. The room has that charged feeling of a room in which a good deal has just been said. Toby opens his mouth to speak and as he does so, and before the speech can come, Paula shoots out an arm, plucks the lamp from the side-table and hurls it at him. She misses, but the bulb explodes interestingly.
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